Night of the Hunter
by mimithenumberon
Summary: FDR and Tuck are hot on Sylar's trail but when they split up and FDR decides to take the killer on all by himself...Things quickly spiral downwards into disaster. Warning: MATURE SEXUAL CONTENTS!, M/M, RAPE, SLIGHT BAD LANGUAGE, Implied Tuck/FDR. I hope u like and please review if u can! ENJOY! XD


**Warning: MATURE SEXUAL CONTENTS!, M/M, RAPE (FDR does end up enjoying this far too much but I'm pretty sure this still constitutes as rape...), Implied Tuck/FDR, Slight Bad Language **

**This was a request by _TWIGHLIGHTSPARKLE96_ and I can only hope I did not let her down... I hope all of u (unfortunate souls) who stumble upon this and decide to give it a read like it! XD **

**Also, if u could leave a review at the end to let me know what you thought, I would appreciate that A LOT! Thank u in advance! X3 ENJOY! **

**Also, I do NOT own Heroes or This Means War or any of the characters! **

_**Night of the Hunter**_

FDR Foster had his flaws. He wasn't perfect. Who was?! But one thing he'd prided himself on being was good at his job. So how come he was in a situation where he was face to face with one of the most notorious and sick serial killers of their time, without a weapon, without any backup on its way and without an escape strategy? And why was the man holding a gun, his gun, pointing at his beating heart? There would be no way to avoid a bullet since he was only a few steps away from the psychopath. In a situation like this he would have entertained some absurd scenario in which the gun wasn't loaded and he would have taken his chances, usually able to escape since he had years of field experience on his shoulders, but this was not a typical thug for hire. This was the notorious Sylar and he was about to shoot him at point blank.

'Well what are you waiting for? A special invitation?' It surprised FDR how steady his voice was considering he did not want to die. He loved his life and he wasn't too eager to just hand it over to Death's bony outstretched hand.

'I don't think you are in a situation where you can act cocky agent.' Sylar's eyes were dark, darker than any man's FDR had encountered before, and they resembled bottomless pits filled with shadows. They were terrifying. FDR knew he'd find no mercy there so he didn't ask for it.

'That never stopped me before.' He knew he was seconds away from the end and he hoped this guy wasn't one of those sadistic types who loved playing with their pray. Getting killed was a risk he took whenever he left the office, it came with the job, but he did not sign up to be mutilated or worse. He'd seen Sylar's _masterpieces_ before, the opened skulls devoid of their contents, and he barely suppressed a shudder. The autopsies all indicated every one of his unfortunate victims had still been alive while he cut them open though they still couldn't tell with absolute certainty what his weapon of choice was. It was almost like the bones simply opened up by themselves. One doctor had compared it to a zipper being pulled and said even the most steady handed surgeon in the world couldn't perform an incision with such precision on a living victim without a slip up or two. FDR didn't know what he'd expected Sylar to be but it certainly wasn't a simple man. He didn't expect a human capable of that sort of thing and he was a field agent who'd seen messed up shit which could never be unseen.

'My, you really are in a hurry to die. I can help you with that.' FDR took in a shocked breath, watching the gun point raise to his face as if in slow motion. Then Sylar flashed him a grin before he pulled the trigger and the room filled with the loud bang of a bulled being fired. He had enough time to close his eyes and his mind relieved the chain of events which lead to that moment right then. Wow, so it was true what they said. You did see your life flash before your eyes before you died, like a final slap in the face...

* * *

'You realize we can't get careless this time, yes?' FDR rolled his eyes at Tuck's words.

'I know, I know. This is not my first time you know.' He smirked at his own words, betraying the fact that he didn't in fact know, despite what he said. His partner shot him a serious look before he returned his attention on the road. He was not about to get into another accident because of FDR's devil-may-care attitude.

'You clearly don't know or you'd take this more seriously mate. The man we're after is a serial killer, the insane, no messing type. You can't just go in and make a mess out of everything and expect it to be alright this time.' He turned a sharp left and FDR had to grip the door to prevent himself from flying into it. They were in a hurry. They got Intel on this guy's whereabouts ten minutes ago and they couldn't waste any time. Fortunately, Tuck was an expert at running every red light and breaking every speed limit.

'I've seen the victims Tuck. I know what we're dealing with.' FDR's tone turned serious and sombre and Tuck fell silent. He knew the other man was just using his sass as a front, a shield. Still, he couldn't help but worry about his best friend since childhood! Especially since they'd have to separate if they were have any chance at catching this sicko. Which reminded him...

'FDR, listen to me. Under no circumstances are you to go after this guy alone. Say it or I'm locking you in the car and tacking the keys.' Tuck could not be more serious. He knew his partner better than anyone and he knew the man's tendency to break the rules. However this time that could spell his end and Tuck couldn't let that happen. It wasn't as if he didn't have absolute confidence in the agent's ability to look after himself. Hell, in the field aspect of the job the guy was most probably way better than himself. He excelled at the planning part and the getting-them-out-of-a-tight-spot-because-of-FDR part. Yet this was not an ordinary man they were going after...

'Will you at least crack the window open?' The agent smirked at Tuck and he turned another bent so hard this time FDR did hit his shoulder against the window.

'This is not a joke mate! Sylar is one of the humans with special abilities and we have no idea what his power is. He was able to kill all those other people who were all power users with ease so you can't let your guard down. Whatever he is it's not funny.' Tuck's fingers were turning white from gripping the steering wheel so tightly. He hoped he'd gotten through to FDR. They were both silent for a moment, Tuck accelerating even more and ignoring the numerous curses and furiously pressed car horns behind him.

'I know. But the other people were simple civilians, all of them. They were not trailed like you and I so I'll be fine. Stop worrying about me and worry about yourself.' FDR was well aware of Tuck's habit of fearing more for others' well-being over his, even when he was the one nocking at Death's door. Should something happen to Tuck because he'd been too distracted thinking of his safety... FDR didn't think he'd be able to ever forgive himself.

'Alright, I'll make you a deal. I don't worry about you if you promise you won't go after Sylar alone.' They were the only two on the trail right then because they were the fastest, best agents the company had to offer. The rest of the force would soon join them. Tuck suspected they were already on the road. Their mission was simply to scout the premises and pin-point the killer's exact location so they could trap him. If everyone rushed in at once then it would be easy for someone like Sylar to escape. He'd done it before...twice. They couldn't afford to fuck up again and end up letting some other innocent person end up with their brains missing. Tuck shuddered at the mental image and at the thought of what Sylar did with the stolen parts.

'Scout's honour.' He knew that was the best he was going to get out of FDR and he prayed to whatever deity chose to listen for it to be enough. He sighed in defeat but a weight was lifted off his shoulders. With the turning of the last corner their destination come into view. How perfectly eerie... Why did serial killers always have to choose the creepy places? The abandoned hospital was an imposing grey building with hundreds of windows staring at them like dead eyes. Sylar was apparently spotted around the area but that was a really large area to comb with only two people. Tuck cursed under his breath, something he rarely did. He hadn't thought the ruin would be quite that large. Well, they'd just have to chance it and hope Lady Luck was feeling amiable.

'We'll have to split up to cover more ground. If one of us sees him we call the other.' He looked hard at FDR and the other agent rolled his eyes again.

'I got it already. I won't go after him alone. I already gave you my scout's honour!' He was checking his guns, making sure they were loaded and ready to go. He also made sure he had his phone in his pocket.

'You weren't a scout mate.' Tuck muttered and entered the abandoned parking lot, turning off the lights and approaching from the darkest corner so as to avoid being spotted.

'Correction. I was about to be a scout but I got kicked out of the camp for being a _troublemaker_. Can you believe that?' The corners of Tuck's lips lifted into a smile at that and FDR grinned triumphantly. He knew how to relax the man and he took pride in that.

'Good judgement call.' FDR smirked and placed his two guns at the back of his belt once more, content with them. They weren't geared up for a hard fight because this was a stealth mission. Both of them were dressed in black, lithe suits, designed for speed and mobility not for protection against a hail of bullets. They did have a bullet vest on, because only a complete brainless agent would leave the office without one. FDR smiled morbidly at the pun he'd made unconsciously.

'Ready?' FDR nodded and the two stepped out of Tuck's car. 'We call each other every ten minutes. If not, we can assume the other has been compromised.' Even saying it made Tuck's throat constrict painfully. Compromised didn't necessarily mean killed but the chances were high. FDR gave a serious nod to show he understood, his smile gone and his eyes devoid of any mirth.

'Good luck partner.'

'Same to you mate.' The two split up to take separate entrances to the building, neither looking back over their shoulders.

* * *

His steps were as silent as a cat's, his gun pointed at the floor but ready to be brought up should it be necessary. He had good reflexes and he trusted his instincts. FDR learned from experience that being a good field agent wasn't something which could be learned from a book. Some people had a natural flare for that sort of thing and he was one of them. Sometimes that knowledge made him cocky but Tuck was usually there to get him out of the worst of it. That wasn't going to happen this time and he resolved to do the right thing for once and be cautious. He sneaked a quick glance at his watch and noticed ten minutes were nearly up since they split up. He looked around, making sure no one could sneak up on him before he send Tuck a quick text telling him there was still no sign of Sylar on his end. A second later he got the same reply from the other agent.

It was to be expected. Chances were they weren't going to get to Sylar at all before the other guys arrived. It was only in moves that the hero conveniently stumbled upon the bad guy in record-time no matter if they were in a small house or the freaking Sahara Desert. It was only his years of experience which alerted him to another presence nearby. He caught a movement with the corner of his eyes just as it disappeared down a corridor with the door torn from its hinges. The word Office was written above it in what had once been white paint. The first word was missing and there was only a faint outline which he couldn't read to give away that there had ever been other letters inscribed into the peeling paint. FDR's vision was limited because it was the dead of night and he couldn't very well turn on a flash light while he was trying to be stealthy. The mysterious shadow had to be Sylar. He glanced at the phone still between his hands and slipped it back into his pocket. He could be wrong... This could be just a homeless guy who took shelter in the abandoned building, or a joker who was playing a prank on someone else or any number of possibilities. He had to make sure this was Sylar before he called Tuck over and effectively make him abandon his own hunt...

He felt the gun between his fingers and took a silent step towards the missing door. He even held his breath, afraid the smallest sound would give him away. For all he knew Sylar had the ability to hear someone's heart beat like a drum at a concert. The knowledge of humans with genes capable of unimaginable things was not news to him or Tucker. They worked for an agency whose sole purpose was the safety of the world so they were on top of something as vitally important as this. Sylar was the first to use these powers, whatever they may be, for mass murder though, or at least the first they knew of. There was always one who had to ruin it for the rest...

FDR's arms rose and pointed the gun in front of them, ready to fire at the slightest movement. He was one step from the door and he paused, his sharp ears straining to hear any sound which would indicate there was someone else in the room. Nothing broke the midnight silence but he knew what he'd seen. He was not even going to entertain the possibility of the creepy setting making him see things. Felling the surge of adrenalin so familiar to him which coursed through his veins whenever he was about to do something possibly dangerous, he took the final step and looked around the space, his entire posture ready to fight. The room was surprisingly spacious and an old wooden desk was shoved against the far wall, directly below a window with its glass shattered. A few empty shelves filled another wall and FDR could see the thick layers of spider webs even with the reduced visibility. There was nowhere for a man to hide. Despite everything he felt relief calm his racing heart and he lowered his gun, taking a calming breath.

The air rushed out of him as soon as it entered his lungs and he nearly dropped his gun when a blooming pain spread up his back. His body automatically turned around and warded another blow before his mind caught up with it. He had to use his hands to stop the other pair from reaching him and he couldn't aim his gun. He hadn't noticed the hollow space in the corner, beside the door frame, all of it pitch black due to the shadows cast by the shelves. The arms holding his, holding them busy so he couldn't fire, seemed to extend from the darkness itself and FDR couldn't see the rest of his attacker's body. But he felt the murderous aura and he felt something which he though he couldn't on the battlefield anymore. He felt fear and not for others, but fear for himself. He felt it scrape down his spine like frozen claws. It distracted him for a fraction of a second but that was all it took for all hell to break loose. He gasped and bent over as a clenched fist made hard contact with his momentarily unprotected abdomen and a second later it was followed by a knee to his ribs.

He stumbled back but by the time he regained control of himself he found his hand empty and the same weapon which had saved his ass too many times to count was now threatening to end it all. He felt the earth below his feet open up and swallow him whole and he couldn't move a muscle to prevent it. His legs were rooted to the hard ground and the rest of him was petrified with the realization that he was about to be killed by a monster who didn't deserve the title of human. A low chuckle drifted to his ears and he tore his eyes from the instrument of death to look at the man stepping from under the subterfuge of shadows. So this was Sylar... FDR half expected some creature with rows of jagged fangs and twisting horns spiralling above his head. But no, FDR knew the Devil liked to wear a human skin. He glared daggers at the deceivingly harmless looking guy, with his trimmed black hair and his handsome features, but it only prompted the killer to grin mockingly.

'Why the ugly look? I'm the one who's supposed to be angry. After all, you invaded my personal space not the other way around.' FDR was surprised by the smoothness of Sylar's' voice but only for a second. He knew a lying, manipulating tongue when he heard one. That was probably how he got so close to most of his victims. He impersonated a charming, caring man and as soon as their guard was dropped... FDR swallowed audibly. Was that to be his fate? Or was Sylar not going to bother with his insane ritual because he wasn't one of the _superior_ humans...

'Better get used to it. Where you're going, you're not gonna get a lot of _personal space_.' Sylar scoffed and moved a step closer to FDR who resisted the urge to back away. If the killer continued to near him then maybe he could disarm him or distract him for enough time to pull out his back-up gun. He only needed a second.

'And where exactly do you think I'm going?' Clearly the psycho was in the mood for talking and FDR cringed. He wanted to jump the man and twist his neck at an unnatural angle but then his eyes fell on the gun again and he felt the icy caress along his skin once more.

'Jail. That's where murderers usually end up but for you they might make an exception and send you straight to hell. I hear it's nice there this time of year.' Sylar chuckled again, his dark eyes looking at FDR as if trying to read his mind. Shit, could he do that?! A look of panic crossed his face but he caught it quickly, but not quick enough to escape Sylar's calculating gaze.

'I'm not going anywhere, but you are going to place that gun on the floor and step away or you'll end up taking your own advice.' FDR cursed silently and moved his hand to his gun slowly, aware that the tiniest of moves could prompt Sylar to squeeze the trigger. He placed the weapon on the ground, keeping his eyes on the other man's all the while, and took two steps back. Sylar neared the gun and shoved it away with his foot. FDR didn't dare take his eyes off the pitch black orbs and he didn't see where his trusty metal companion ended up.

He swallowed again and the arctic chills which crawled like spiders along his flesh reached his drumming heart.

* * *

He waited for the pain to come, for the feel of his own blood gushing out of him and staining his top but nothing happened. He opened his eyes gingerly coming face to face with Sylar's amused smirk and his hand pressed against his chest, needing to verify that there really wasn't any blood there. At such close range the bullet vest would have been useless. The hospital seemed to be even more silent after the ringing shot. He wondered if Tuck heard it and he prayed his partner would come save his ass like always. But even as he thought it he knew it was delusional. Tuck was somewhere on the other side of the building and there was no way he could hear one fired bulled over that great a distance no matter how sharp his ears.

'I'm not going to kill you just yet. You might still be useful to me.' FDR narrowed his eyes. He made a vow to himself to have both his arms and legs torn off before telling Sylar anything and he was just stubborn enough to go through with that plan.

'Keep dreaming sicko. I'm not telling you anything.' Sylar laughed as if his words were absolutely ridiculous.

'I'm not worried about your little friends coming to catch me. I can hear them from a mile away.' The way he said that last part made FDR add a 'literally' to it. That would explain how he'd realized Tuck and he were on his track. They'd been certain to keep silent so he was certain normal ears couldn't have picked up on their presence. 'No, no. I have other plans for you.' FDR felt the black pits roam over his body again and some instinct wired deeply into his very existence screamed at him to run. He wondered if this was what a lamb felt while staring into the ravenous eyes of a wolf, but he was no docile sheep. Whatever Sylar had in mind he was going to find that out soon.

'Then what do you want?' Sylar had that strange smile on again. It was cold but it made FDR's blood boil with its infuriating rows of perfectly white teeth.

'Take off your clothes.' FDR couldn't have been more surprised if the guy told him he was his father. He openly gawked at the smirking killer and realized the guy was serious. His wide eyes widened even further but not from surprise this time. His jaw tightened and his lips pressed in a hard line. He didn't move a muscle. 'I won't ask again and next time I shoot, I will shoot to kill.' Sylar's voice lost all pretend charm and FDR heard the sharpness of it under all that masking velvet. He knew the man meant what he said and he struggled for a moment with the decision between his life and his pride. What would Tuck tell him to do? He'd tell him to live because he could regain his pride later but he could never take back his life.

The fury on his face was unmistakable but FDR began moving his hands to the straps of his bulled vest and undid them. Once that was removed he grasped the hem of his insulating black suit shirt and brought it over his head. He wasn't wearing anything under it so he could move on to the black gloves. He decided to postpone the trousers for as long as possible and discarded his shoes and socks instead, flinching when his bare skin touched the cold concrete below them. He hoped there weren't any glass fragments or forgotten needles lying around... He paused with his hands on his belt but Sylar nodded and, swallowing back his protest, he unbuckled the belt. He pushed the material down his thighs and stepped out of them, leaving him in nothing but a pair of black, tight boxers. He hoped against hope this would be enough to satisfy the murder who currently held all the cards. Alas, he knew it was not.

'Those too. There's no point in being shy now.' FDR shot him a lethal glare but unfortunately looks couldn't kill. He thought of the reasons why he wanted to stay alive and dropped the last piece of clothing on his persona to the heap on the floor. He wanted to cover his modesty with his hands but somehow he knew that would only make Sylar lash out and he was not getting killed after going through this humiliation to stay alive! 'Good. Now get on your knees.' FDR flushed, his rage mingling with shame in a horrible tasting cocktail.

'Fuck you!' Sylar grinned at his outburst and FDR ground his teeth, the muscles along his jaw jumping with the strain.

'All in good time. Do what you're told or I shoot you in the knees. I'll still get what I want but you can spare yourself some unnecessary pain.' FDR nearly barked another curse at the killer but he saw the point of his words. Going against every impulse to spite the man, he sunk to his knees reluctantly, the cold going unnoticed this time. He waited for his next instructions, already pretty sure he knew what the sick creep wanted. But Sylar managed to surprise him yet again and, as before, the surprise was not a pleasant one.

'Sit back and spread your legs.' The agent couldn't even think of something to say to that. He'd expected to be told something along the line of 'open your mouth' but this took it to a whole new level of humiliation. FDR had to ask himself if living was really worth it and once more he thought of Tuck and how he'd once told him that no matter what, life was worth living. With even more hesitancy than before he sat back and, looking away, spread his legs. 'Wider.' FDR could feel his heart beating in his mouth as he followed the command, spreading his legs as far as they would go. 'What a nice sight. This next part you can enjoy too. Start fingering yourself.' That was going too far. Gun or no, FDR was not about to shove his own fingers into his ass for the viewing pleasure of a sick serial murderer.

'No!' He also closed his legs slightly, seeing how the action displeased Sylar.

'What's wrong? Don't you know how to do it or are you perhaps afraid of liking being watched?' It was almost like Sylar knew FDR. If there was one thing which motivated the agent it was being baited into a dare contest. His trouble-making attitude flared up despite his fear and a cocky grin spread on his lips.

'Not at all but I might still need to be told what to do since I wouldn't dream of disappointing a perverted criminal like you.' Sylar narrowed his eyes as if contemplating this and moved towards FDR who remained perfectly still. He was still thinking of luring the guy close enough so he could snatch his gun back. If it came down to a hand to hand confrontation he was pretty confident in his victory. Sylar moved behind him and even if he couldn't see it anymore, FDR knew the gun was still firmly locked on his body. He nearly jumped when he felt the other's hot breath on the back of his neck and realized the killer was crouched behind him, uncomfortably close with the tip of the gun touching FDR's skin. He moved the metal along his back in mock gentleness, leaving trails of coolness in its wake.

'Have it your way. I'll tell you exactly what to do and if you don't act on it...well, I doubt I have to repeat the consequences.' The lips were brushing against his ear and he supressed the need to move away. He cursed his stupid mouth! Why couldn't he just shut up for once in his life and get the ordeal done with?! 'Bring your fingers to your mouth and suck on them.' FDR decided to stop resisting until the right moment showed itself, since it wouldn't make a difference. Also, it would give Sylar a false sense of power and that's when people became reckless. FDR was counting on that knowledge. Following the whispered instructions, he brought a hand to his mouth and allowed two fingers to slide in past his lips. He knew how to sleek them and he did his best to do a good job, not seeing the point if enduring more pain than was strictly necessary. He twisted his tongue around the fingers knowing full well that no matter how much he licked them, spit was a poor substitute for lubricant. This was going to hurt like a bitch but somehow he knew a bullet in the back would be far worse.

'Now move those fingers to your hole and slide one in. Fast.' FDR swallowed drily, finding his mouth had gone bone dry. This usually happened when he was getting turned on but that was stupid...No way was he going to enjoy any of this twisted game he was forced to play! He moved his hand to his entrance, spreading his legs as wide as possible again, anything to make the intrusion easier, and slid the first digit all the way to the knuckle in one go. The sting made him hiss and tense up while fighting the prickle of tears forming at the corners of his eyes. It was familiar, having lost his virginity down there a good while back, but it was still far more painful than it had to be. He kept the finger still until Sylar told him what to do next, grateful for the small break allowed to his body to get used to the feel of being penetrated so suddenly.

'Start moving it, slowly.' FDR felt teeth scrap against his neck and a shiver went through him, this one not caused by the cold or by the fear. He pointedly ignored it and began pulling his finger out only to push it back in, settling on a steady rhythm he knew worked for him. Then he realized he wasn't supposed to find pleasure in this and, though he didn't change the pace, he made sure to avoid that spot inside him which would undoubtedly have him biting his lower lip in anticipation. He was not going to give Sylar the satisfaction.

'Add the second one and stretch your asshole.' FDR's breathing became that little bit more difficult when the killer whispered the order against the skin of his shoulder. The cruel lips latched onto it and teeth sank into his flesh again, not hard enough to rip it apart but certainly not gently. He knew what the guy was aiming for. He wanted to make him get aroused as a final humiliation and the agent was going to do everything in his power to stop that from happening. He would picture his boss naked if that's what it took! He added the second digit and his muscles swallowed them both greedily. They accommodated to the new sensation with ease and FDR began pushing against the walls, stretching them with scissoring motions, all the while careful not to accidentally press the magic bundle of nerves inside him despite his growing desire to do so. He didn't have to look down to know his member was beginning to stir, his traitorous body letting him down. He couldn't help it! He was a man with desires and despite his deepest wish to remain flaccid and unmoved, his animalistic urges far outmatched his rational mind.

'Looks like you're starting to enjoy this. Move your fingers in and out faster.' Sylar moved his hand, the one holding his gun, around FDR's chest. The metal rubbed against his dusky nipple and traced circles around the sensitive flesh while Sylar's other hand moved down his stomach. The agent was finding it harder and harder to concentrate but he began thrusting his fingers at a faster pace. He didn't sink them all the way in and hoped Sylar wouldn't notice but he realized he'd been made when the free hand closed around his own and began moving it for him, his own fingers still fucking his hole. Sylar pushed his hand inside him with breath taking force, over and over, and FDR couldn't stop his tips from slamming into the dreaded pleasure spot. As expected, he bit his lip to stifle the moans which threatened to spill out of his mouth but his stirring cock betrayed him despite everything. The tell-tale hardness had Sylar smirking and FDR knew he'd lost the final battle. Shame burned his skin and spread across it like red dye and he regretted not having lost some of that blood after all.

'What a dirty slut you are. Do you often get off on being the toy of a murderer or am I just special?' FDR's answer was a suggestion for Sylar to go and do something anatomically improbable. The killer's low laugh reverberated through his entire frame and he shuddered though he tried to stop himself. His free hand edged towards his almost fully hard member, in need of some relief. His fingertips barely managed to touch the reproductive organ before it was slapped away and Sylar's hand pressed it painfully into the concrete floor by his side, their fingers intertwining. FDR realized he wasn't holding the gun anymore and felt like kicking himself for not noticing sooner. He'd missed his chance and he doubted he was going to get another. His fingers continued to thrust mercilessly into him and it was quickly becoming a discomfort. He needed something more to bring him to completion and his entire body shook with that need.

'I didn't give you permission to touch yourself there. You are going to come without having your cock touched once and you are ready to ask for me to take you.' Sylar's voice was rougher than before, showing his own lust, and FDR couldn't believe it was turning him on. The pain spreading from his pinned hand and the excruciatingly insufficient pleasure forced into him repeatedly was quickly making him go insane. He would have screamed had his teeth not been so firmly sunk into his lip and still some noises which could only be associated with pleasure escaped him. Suddenly an entirely different noise drifted to both their ears and FDR frowned. Sylar did not slow his hand for a second. Realization dawned on FDR a moment later and he realized it was his phone vibrating to tell him he'd received a new message. He'd completely forgotten about Tuck! If he left the message unanswered then maybe his partner will realize something was wrong and head on over... He felt the pressure on his still hand leave and when he glanced over his shoulder, his lips nearly touching the other man's, he saw Sylar take the phone out of his discarded trouser pocket. He read the message in a flash and grinned coldly at FDR before texting Tuck back, assuring him that he was fine and there was still no sign of the killer. FDR felt the blow of disappointment as acutely as if Sylar had slapped him across the face.

'You look even prettier when you're hopes are crushed.' FDR ground his teeth, biting his tongue accidentally and tasting metallic blood on it, before he attempted elbowing the man behind him but Sylar had been expecting that and he grasped the agent's wrist only to twist it behind his back hard enough for FDR to yell in pain. He arched his spine, forced by the angle of his twisted shoulder, and the other man scraped his teeth along the edge of his jaw. He snickered softly and FDR realized he wasn't the only one aroused. He could feel the erection press into his lower back and for some inexplicable reason it made him gasp lewdly before he could stop himself. He was incredibly sensitive at this point, every touch no matter how light or rough was making him want to moan like a two dollar whore. His own fingers rooted inside him at an increasingly slower pace and he found himself bucking into his hand which was held captive by Sylar's. Even after he realized what he was doing he just didn't have it in him to stop anymore but Sylar was too much of a sadist to give into his desperate wish.

'I told you what you have to do if you want things to get better. Let me hear you beg with those pretty lips of yours.' FDR felt his rage blaze but it only mixed with the lust so acute it was torturous. He didn't want to scoop so low! He didn't want to but he doubted he could last much longer. Sylar settled on thrusting the fingers in roughly only to pop them out all the way and repeat the process. Each time the switch was flipped inside him FDR felt a little of his last defensive wall crumble until it all came crashing down.

'Please!...' Sylar didn't stop and FDR whined. So much for trusting a murderer's words...

'Please what?' Well, he was already past the point of no return so there was no point in him clinging to his shredded pride now...

'Please fuck me!...' Sylar's smirk was just another slap of shame and FDR endured it while silently swearing an oath to put a bulled between the killer's eyes one day.

'That wasn't so hard, now was it?' FDR kept silent and Sylar laughed again, his lips leaving one last bruising kiss on his bridged throat. Finally FDR's hand was freed and he pulled his fingers out of his puckered hole. He was pulled to his feet harshly, his twisted arm sending stabs of protesting pain through his nervous system. He suffered silently as he was lead towards the old desk from behind only to be shoved roughly over it, the wood digging into his hips and waist. He'll find bruises there later, he was sure of it. If there was going to be a later... He heard the sound of clothes being discarded but he couldn't turn his head to look. He had to support his weight on only one arm since Sylar was not dumb enough to let go of his leverage, now that the gun was gone. He felt the tip of something hard press against his entrance and he mentally braced himself for what was surely to come.

'You seem to like it rough so don't worry, I won't disappoint.' That was all the warning FDR received before Sylar buried himself all the way to the hilt inside him in one rough thrust. The agent screamed, the tearing pain numbing him for a moment. However he wasn't allowed any time to recuperate before the length withdrew only to push in again and again and again until the sharp pain began to dull. It didn't go away and FDR felt some tears run down his cheeks but the pleasure of having the pleasure inducing never rammed into with such ferocity made him alternate between choked yells and wanton moans. His fingers hooked desperately against the wood, the blunt nails leaving scrape marks, as each shove pushed his bruised waist harder against the table's edge. The room filled with his noise, the creaking of the supporting desk and Sylar's groans.

In all his years, FDR had never taken it so roughly and he wondered if sex would ever feel the same again. He hated every inch of himself for it, but he couldn't deny that he was enjoying this a hell of a lot more than he should have been. He willingly lifted a knee over the wooden frame, giving Sylar even more access to his hole and was lost so far down the path of bliss he didn't even register the other's triumphant smirk. He had already been close before and under the new regime it only took a little while longer before he felt himself being dragged to an explosive depth where he was certain he was being drowned by his own intense climax. He'd never passed out after sex before and he'd frankly thought that was a myth but he was swallowed by the darkness none-the-less. As he drifted into unconsciousness he was hazily aware of Sylar fucking him relentlessly before he felt something liquid like fill him like nothing had ever filled him before. That was the last thing he remembered before his head hit the desk surface heavily.

* * *

FDR regained consciousness a few minutes later, woken up by the buzzing of his phone. He was used to having to wake up at the most ungodliest of hours for some work related issue or other and he didn't hesitate to open his eyes. A dizzying amount of sensations hit him all at the same time and he had to take a moment and simply breathe. His body was stone cold, having lain naked on the concrete floor while covered in perspiration and with the window offering no protection against the arctic autumn wind. He rubbed his numb fingers together, already making peace with the cold which would surely keep him bed-bound for the next week or so. Every inch of his body felt like it had been bludgeoned by someone with a baseball bat or he'd been hit by a bus. Having experienced both of those before he knew exactly what he was talking about. His mind was still a little sleepy and he didn't remember the reason behind this beating until the phone buzzed again and he looked at Tuck's message.

Sylar... He texted his partner with the same information as before robotically. He remembered everything and his stomach twisted. He fought down the bile rising in his throat and slowly, gingerly moving his body, began to re-dress himself. When he got to his feet he felt something run down his thigh and cringed, refusing to think about it right then. The arm which had been forced behind his back hurt with every breath but he'd had way worse. He'd had that arm broken more time than he could remember and he knew this was not something he couldn't handle. He found his two guns and placed them where they belonged, wincing when he had to twist his shoulder to reach the back of his belt. He knew Sylar was already gone. Tuck wasn't going to find him and now that he was presentable again, having carefully hidden all the bruises made by the killer's lips, teeth and hands, he reached for his phone again to text Tuck.

That's when he saw the message. He'd been too distracted before to realize Sylar had left him a final word and he nearly flung the phone out the window when he finished reading it. Suddenly he didn't care if they were going to spend the whole night looking for a target which had given them the slip for a third time. He just wanted to find Tuck and be near him. He didn't care if they were in that haunted hospital or in one of their beds. He just wanted the other man near him. He read the message one last time before he pressed the delete button, deciding to keep this a secret from Tuck. He'd only worry for nothing.

_This was more fun than I anticipated and I think I'm going to give you another surprise visit soon. _

_SYLAR_

* * *

**I hope u liked it and don't forget about that review, if u have the time! XD **

**HAVE A LOVELY DAY! **


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